


The Years Of The Sea That Lies Beneath

by holymalfoys



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: (not between R+E though, Alcohol, Cigarettes, Eddie Kaspbrak - Freeform, Implied Sexual Content, Infidelity, M/M, Malta, Rated M for Safety, Reddie, Richie Tozier - Freeform, don't worry), no beta we die like men, non-canon compliant, the ocean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holymalfoys/pseuds/holymalfoys
Summary: The clock on the wall behind Eddie strikes noon. Richie catches his eye, his face creasing into a tiny grin. He lifts his hand and waves, his bag thrown over his shoulder and his glasses crooked on his nose.“Eddie,” he says, and his voice slices through the din of excited chatter that fills the stuffy room.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Sandy & Richie Tozier
Kudos: 24





	The Years Of The Sea That Lies Beneath

**Author's Note:**

> i do not own any of these characters. i also don't own malta, or america, or anything that occurs in this plot and storyline. all rights go to stephen king and andy muschietti. pls don't sue me.

The air conditioning in the airport is broken. Eddie, hair flat and sticky from the heat of his helmet, mutters under his breath and tugs his arm across his dripping forehead. The heat during the summer is already brutal, a constant punch to the gut when one strays too far from the closest form of ventilation, and adding a crowd of equally overheated people to the mix doesn’t make things any better.

To his right, a woman shrieks. She opens her arms, and a child barrels straight into them. Eddie’s heart tugs in his chest, and he finds himself smiling.

The sun beats down through the frosted glass of the ceiling. His white wife-beater is soaked through- he can feel it glued to his skin- and his shorts are probably not much better.

July in Malta. There’s nothing in this world quite like it.

From the busy bustle of the terminal emerges a man. He’s tall, wide shoulders and long legs and unruly hair, and he’s looking for something.

Eddie smiles.

_ Richie. _

The clock on the wall behind Eddie strikes noon. Richie catches his eye, his face creasing into a small grin. He lifts his hand and waves, his bag thrown over his shoulder and his glasses crooked on his nose.

“Eddie,” he says, and his voice slices through the din of excited chatter that fills the stuffy room.

* * *

“I don’t have a car,” Eddie says, once the formalities are finished. Richie is as close to him as he is infuriatingly far away, but that’s the way it always is.

An American, and, as of recently, a Maltese man. They live in two different universes, and yet here they are. Brought together by a lull that’s justified by the warm soil they stand on, carefully drinking each other in.

Richie’s changed since he was a boy. Gone is the boy who once staggered on his feet like a baby deer, arms flailing and legs like stilts; in his place is a man of a startling elegance, an enigmatic soul with big hands and a bigger smile and a feather light touch.

And yet he’s still the same. His eyes flit in all directions at all times, never really settling on anything. His energy still rolls off him in waves, but in manhood he’s learned to reign it in. He’s learned how to walk without making any footprints in the sand, and he’s learned how to make it seem easy.

But it isn’t easy. Because he’s an American, and yet here he is; in a foreign land, in a foreign world, with a familiar man and a familiar story.

_ “Spagheds,” _ he’d cried dramatically, hands brushing over Eddie’s head and arms and torso without really touching him at all.  _ “You’ve grown!” _

Eddie had slapped his hands away, palms and cheeks warm from the dead heat. “Tut, tut,” he’d said, just like that.  _ Tut tut, Richie. You’ll break your ankle if you jump from there. _

Tut tut. Richie had burst into abrasive laughter, too loud and too harsh, but Eddie still found himself laughing along.

“That’s okay,” Richie says, eyeing the motorcycle warily. The pale of his skin glows in the harsh light.

The July sun beats down. Eddie bites his smile and tosses Richie his spare helmet, fingers itching as Richie fastens the strap underneath his chin and fixes his glasses through the visor. He smiles at Eddie, throwing him a bashful thumbs up.

His grin has stayed the same, all the way through the years.

* * *

The road to Eddie’s house is dusty and long. Richie’s arms wrap around his waist loosely, not really holding him at all. Eddie rolls his eyes, leans slightly more forward, and accelerates.

Dirt flies up into the sky in their wake.  _ Now.  _ Eddie thinks.  _ The sun. _

Richie yelps and squeezes Eddie’s middle. Under his helmet, Eddie smiles.

* * *

“Why’d you come here?” Richie asks. It’s just gone eight, and they’re sitting in the garden. Two empty wine bottles sit on the wired table between them. “What made you decide on Malta?”

Eddie looks out at the sea. He feels Richie watching him, and he smiles. The wine is bitter today. Perhaps it’s the heat.

“Il-baħar,” he says.  _ The sea _ . It stretches for miles around them, impossibly blue, impossibly large, impossibly silky. It looks like a shawl, spread out and billowing in the evening breeze.

Richie’s gaze turns questioning. Eddie smiles into his glass.

* * *

“It’s only a passing visit,” Richie says. Eddie’s head rests on his naked chest as they share a cigarette, the curtains swelling and shrinking in the nightly sea breeze. “I won’t be here for long.”

His arm is barely under Eddie. The cigarette dangles in his long fingers as he gesticulates in the warm air, and Eddie presses a kiss into his bicep to hide his smile. He drags Richie’s hand down, down, down, tilts it so he can suck in the sour smoke pouring from the alight stick, and exhales into Richie’s jaw. 

“Right,” he says, laughing at the dark of Richie’s eyes.

The July moon is even more beautiful than its sun, Eddie knows. 

* * *

Waves crash softly against the white sand they're walking on. Richie’s straw hat barely fits on his head- he has to keep pushing it down onto his curls, never once stopping his chatter to focus on the task at hand. 

“Tut, tut,” Eddie says, and reaches out to fix it on his head properly. Richie goes rigid, just for a moment- his eyes huge behind their lenses, his mouth red and slightly chapped- and Eddie pulls away hastily.

They don’t do this. They don’t touch each other.

Richie watches him for a second. His expression is locked, would be unreadable to anyone who doesn’t know how he looks when he sleeps, but Eddie has memorised every freckle spread across his cheeks and every line that comes with his smile.

_ Danger,  _ his face says.

Eddie smiles at him.  _ There’s no one else here. It doesn’t mean anything. _

The sun beats down on them. They continue walking.

* * *

“Sandy’s pregnant,” Richie says. It’s somewhere between three in the morning and the rest of their lives, and he’s standing in front of the window.

His back is longer than it seems, his buttocks round and pale. His legs stretch for miles, not unlike the sea, and Eddie drinks in the view.

“Hm?” he says. 

Richie turns to him. His curls are wild, his jaw is sharp, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bleary. Eddie’s palms itch.

“Sandy,” he whispers. “She’s pregnant.” His line of sight falls on the open of Eddie's legs, and his throat bobs. Eddie smiles.

_ Tut, tut, Richie. Don’t look at things you find pretty. _

* * *

“What did you tell her?” Eddie asks. They’re standing in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.

It’s evening again. The day has passed by quickly, melted in books and shy looks and a cold bath, decorated with high cheekbones and heated stares.

At Richie’s expression, Eddie laughs. He cuts into another onion to stop himself from reaching out and kissing him.

“Sandy. What did you tell her you were doing?” It’s a forbidden question. Richie stills, and Eddie smiles.

“I said I was going to Canada for a meeting,” he mutters. Eddie smiles wider.

“A meeting? Just the one?” He presses, words quick and light and carrying all the things they can’t say.

Richie looks at him.

“She doesn’t ask questions.”

The lampuki pie is sweet tonight. Perhaps it’s the heat. 

* * *

“Why’d you come here?” Richie asks again.

It’s the third day of his visit. His hair is wet from his afternoon shower, his skin flushed from the July sun. 

_ Tut, tut, Richie. How are you going to explain the marks from the sun on your skin? _

He’s sitting at Eddie’s piano, his back pressed to the keys. Eddie lifts his head from his book and smiles.

“Hm,” he hums, making a show of looking around the room. The ceilings are high, the walls a burnt orange, the windows large and open to the night.

“L-arkitettura,” he says.  _ The architecture.  _ His gaze slides to Richie, who looks frustrated.

“You know I can’t speak Maltese, Eds,” he whines. 

“Guess what I said, then.” Eddie taunts, smiling at him. Richie sticks his tongue out, then tilts his head up to the ceiling. 

His shirt is open at the collar, slowly sliding down one of his shoulders. His sleeves are large and full of air, and the dark of his hair is unruly and wild.

Medieval always did look good on Richie.

* * *

It’s the fifth day of Richie’s stay, and the days are only getting hotter.

The boat is old, rickety. Eddie polished the engine last night, guided by the moon and the old rag he always keeps in his toolbox, and it gleams in the July sun.

Richie climbs in, long legs clearing the sides easily. He grasps a picnic basket in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other.

“Let’s go, captain,” he says when he’s seated. He realises his words, flushes. Eddie smiles.

_ Tut, tut, Richie. It’s only day five. _

“Onwards and upwards, as they say,” Eddie says, and then they’re gliding through the years of the sea that lies beneath them.

* * *

The restlessness is starting to simmer.

It always gets like this, eventually. The first few days are the days of tentativeness, the days of re-familiarising. The days of pretence.

It’s a week into Richie’s stay, and his desperation comes out in all the ways he exists. 

It’s just late enough into his stay for him to forget himself. For him to forget his wife, who he oh-so flippantly announced was pregnant just a few days ago, and soften under Eddie’s smile.

All of his efforts are now dogged; he has started putting his feet in Eddie’s lap in the evenings, pressing against him at the kitchen sink, looking at him when he thinks Eddie isn’t watching. The days bring tactility, and Eddie’s smile grows bigger every time Richie brushes against him.

_ Tut tut, Richie. Don’t touch things you can’t have. _

The July sun burns bright behind them.

* * *

Moonlight floods the kitchen. The radio plays a soft melody, so quiet it could easily be quenched by the sea breeze.

Eddie’s head is hooked over Richie’s shoulder, and Richie’s hand is on Eddie’s back. They stand in the silhouette of the sea, swaying together.

The chairs have been scraped back for space, and the tiles are cool beneath their bare feet.

“The sun looks good on you,” Eddie murmurs, eyeing the old radio. Richie swallows, his throat clicking.

His hold becomes a little tighter, his body pressing a little closer to Eddie.

A second, and his open lips brush Eddie’s hair. The song changes.

Eddie smiles. The moon beams down at them, and they dance slowly into the night.

* * *

“It’s hot today,” Richie says, leg bouncing and jostling the kitchen table. His head is twisted on his shoulders, staring out at the sea.

“It’s always hot,” Eddie points out, smiling when Richie glares thunderously at him. Eddie sweeps past him, stopping to plant a kiss on his head, and Richie instantly relaxes into his chair. A sigh leaves his lips, and then he’s back rigid, staring out at something Eddie can’t see. 

His leg is bouncing again. Eddie can hear the cutlery shuddering on the worn wood over the sound of him washing their bowls. 

“Richie,” he says, and stops. He doesn’t need to say anything else.

The cutlery stops shaking. Richie sucks in a breath, his full lips catching on his teeth, and he lets out a soft sob. 

“Take me to bed, Eddie,” he says, sounding ashamed and needy and so very shy. 

Eddie smiles at the water in the sink.

* * *

“Why did you come here?” Richie asks for the third time. It’s his tenth day here.

He’s just pulled his helmet off, and his face is red and swollen from the heat. Lines mark nonsensical patterns on his cheeks and forehead, and he huffs a curl from his eye.

Freckles have sprung onto his peach-soft arms. Eddie is certain he’s traced them all.

Their dynamic has shifted again. No more tentativeness, no more domesticity- this is the beginning of a war Eddie knows well, and yet he is never prepared.

“Why’d you decide on Malta?” Richie demands. His eyes are dark pools of fury and pain and something else, something Eddie knows well but can’t describe.

A longing, perhaps. Or maybe a form of jealousy.

The sun is starting to set. Eddie hesitates for a second, the words heavy and sweet on his tongue. Richie's eyes flash.

Anger and desperation roll off him. He's beyond inquisitive, at this stage; he wants a reason.

A reason to stay, a reason to go. A reason to feel good, a reason to feel bad.

A reason to stay, and a reason to never come back.

_ Tut tut, Richie. You shouldn't ask for answers you don't want. _

“Minħabba fik,” Eddie says, knowing Richie won’t understand. A plea shines in Richie's eyes, and Eddie smiles at him.

_ Because of you.  _

America is unforgiving in its ways. Yearning for someone far away is eternally better than yearning for someone nearby, and Europe is wild and soft in itself.

Richie storms past him. Upstairs, a door slams. 

The sun disappears over the horizon, and daylight slips away.

* * *

“I’m going home,” Richie announces. He’s sitting at the kitchen table again, and his leg bounces against it. “Sandy needs me.”

Eddie stares out into his garden. The gravel needs raking, he thinks. The flowers need watering.

Behind him, Richie clears his throat. “I’m going home,” he repeats.

“That’s okay,” Eddie says. “Tonight, or tomorrow?”

He knows what the answer is. It’s always the same.

Silence seeps into the kitchen. Richie stills, then his leg is back bouncing. 

_ Thud, thud, thud,  _ the plates sing.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers.

It’s loud enough for Eddie to hear, and he smiles.

“Okay,” he says. 

* * *

The night passes in flashes of pale skin kissed purple and dark hair strewn across pillows. Cries are whispered into mouths, tears are spilled, and promises that can’t be kept are made.

Outside, the moon smiles in the night sky.

* * *

“I probably won’t be back,” Richie says. His bag is thrown over his shoulder, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He swallows. “What with Sandy and the kid and whatnot.” 

His tone is casual, his eyes racing over Eddie’s features.

Eddie knows what he’s saying.  _ Don’t wait for me, but don’t let me go. _

“Okay,” he says, smiling. 

Richie nods, then, once. It’s a firm nod; his glasses jump on his face.

The air conditioning in the airport is still broken. Eddie, hair flat and sticky from his helmet, mutters under his breath and tugs his arm across his dripping forehead. The heat during the summer is already brutal, a consistent punch to the gut, and adding a crowd of equally sweaty people to the mix doesn’t make things any better.

To his right, a woman cries. She opens her arms, and a teenager flees them. Eddie’s heart tugs in his chest, and he finds himself frowning.

“Right, well,” Richie says, stretching. “Thank you for having me. It’s been a pleasure.” 

He sticks his hand out. Eddie takes it, shaking it firmly.

Richie’s hand lingers for a moment, and then it falls away. He steps back, looks once more at Eddie, and then he turns on his heel and breaks away.

The sun beats down through the frosted glass of the ceiling. Eddie’s white wife-beater is soaked through- he can feel it glued to his skin- and his shorts are probably not much better.

July in Malta. There’s nothing in this world quite like it.

Into the busy bustle of the terminal disappears a man. He’s tall, wide shoulders and long legs and unruly hair, and he doesn’t turn around.

Eddie’s smile falls.

_ Richie. _

The clock on the wall behind him strikes noon. Richie’s steps falter, and then pick up again. He’s soon swallowed whole by the crowd.

Eddie watches until there’s nothing left to watch. 

And then he’s on his bike, and the speed isn’t enough. And then he goes home, back to his silent house and his empty bed.

* * *

The sun sets. The wine is poured, and the tears start to fall.

_ Tut, tut, Eddie. You shouldn’t cry over things that aren’t yours. _

The moon disappears behind a cloud, and the rain starts to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> everyone look away, this is me imagining making a move to a different country to escape a scandalous affair... only for said affair to continue there.
> 
> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed <3
> 
> if you have any questions or want to have a chat, you can find me on:
> 
> tumblr: @holymalfoys  
> twitter: @lgbtdracos


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